Blasting from the Boonies

My sister and I are walking around in someone's front yard. I am in my giant mustard-colored sweatshirt with giant naked African people dancing on it that says, "JAMBO" that is also the kind of length that makes it look like I have no pants on; my sister is in pajama pants made of pink fuzz with giant cats all over them. Have you ever been rained on until your hair is soaked, and to dry it you drive around for a long time with the windows down, and by the time you step out of the car you have a Foxy Cleopatra fro? Well that is just what had happened before we decided to walk around in someone's front yard.

This wasn't by choice, by the way. I'm not one of those who posts up in someone's tree with binoculars and a sock waiting for them to conveniently undress right in front of their open window; I'm just somebody who obeys their father.

"Go to that party you were at last night and see if your sister's cell phone is there."

And so that is just what we were doing.

Awkwardly.

In giant pajamas and Einstein 'do's.

So we're walking through this front yard, which is quite big, with a driveway to the left.

(That's all I'm going to elaborate as far as scenery goes; it's a pet peeve of mine when people spend 15 minutes trying to explain where exactly they were before they even begin the story.

"You know where that restaurant is on that street with the little sign?"

"No."

"Well okay, you know that school on that avenue where people walk around?"

"No."

"Hmmm...okay how about that road with the dead end sign where there's a dead end?"

"Sure."
A.k.a. just tell the damn story already.

"Okay well that's where we were. Anyway that's not important. So this guy---"

Yeah. I hate when people do that.)

So literally 34 seconds after we begin our trespassing, a car pulls out of that same driveway to the left. Of course this would happen. Of all the cars. Of all the driveways. Of all the times. Of all the sweatshirts.

"That car is coming from this house!"

"What should we do?"

"Just act like we're on a walk!"

"What?"

"Just act like we're taking a walk!"

"Natasha, no one goes on walks through people's front yards."

"Then let's walk over there!"

So we walk out of the yard as this car is driving right past us, and see that the road ends and there is a graveyard, which we start walking next to. I start whistling because I've seen it done in movies, and my sister keeps telling me we look morbid and why do I have naked black women on my shirt.

"Hey, are you looking for something?"

"Uhhh...yeah...sorry."
Sorry this is so incredibly awkward.

"We're looking for my phone. I lost it here last night."

"Is it black?"
Like the women on my sweatshirt? Please don't notice them.

"YES!"

"Yeah, I found it in the yard. I'm leaving now but you can just go on in and get it. It's in the kitchen."

"Thank you!"

Relieved, we stroll on up to the front door. Remembering that he said, "Just go on in," I start trying to open the door. It won't budge. So I try turning the knob several times. It's locked. Frustrated, I grab the knob with two hands and start shaking it as hard as I can yelling, "AAAAHHHHH!" trying to amuse my sister. That's when someone opened the door from the other side.

"Can I help you?"
She was looking at me as if I were Norman Bates. Though with my hair looking the way it did I'm sure I could have been mistaken for his mother.

"Yeah, uhhhh, sorry. HI! I'm Natasha."

"Are you looking for something?"

"Yes, yes. YES, I AM. A phone. Cell phone. My sister left it here. Uhhh sorry about trying to open your door he told me to just come on in so I figured the door was jammed or something..."
Yeah, sorry I just started yelling like an ape right outside of your house, then shaking your door violently trying to break in.

"Oh, it's fine, honey."
Older folk always say that when they're freaked the fuck out. I've never heard an adult say, "Man I'm freakin out!" they just say something like, "Hmmm, we'll work this out." That's how I knew she thought I was Jennifer Beals in a leotard and leg warmers.

"Oh, that's the phone!"

"There you go."

"Thank you!"

"Uh-huh."

"Sorry again about the whole breaking into your house thing...ha...ha..."

"See you later, honey."

GOD HOW DO I MAKE EVERYTHING SO AWKWARD. As soon as we get outside, we start talking about how creepy the area the house is in, this country-back-of-the-woods-isolated-farm-land.

"Man this is like a creepy country-back-of-the-woods-isolated-farm-land."

"For real."

And as soon as we say this, no joke, CIRCUS MUSIC starts playing from who the fuck knows where. CIRCUS MUSIC IS BLASTING THROUGH THE BOONIES.

"Is that circus music...?"

"LET'S GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!"

So we start running towards the car, I'm talking full out sprint here, to my Volvo which we parked in someone else's driveway "to be smooth," but as we advance to that same driveway we see a car waiting beside it to pull into THAT driveway. I'm assuming this person actually owned the house in which the driveway we had parked our car in led to, unlike us, which brings me back to my previous point of HOW DO I MAKE EVERYTHING SO AWKWARD. We don't look at them because it's already uncomfortable enough; we just get in the car; I keep my head down which made it very difficult to drive, as you can imagine, and left. Laughing. And screaming.

Party Like It's 2009

Well, I did it. I wore that awkward square they call a hat and walked across a stage to my name being mispronounced one last time just to finally say to the world of high school, "FUCK YOU!" Cause I'm done, baby. That's right. DONE. No more accidentally bumping into "people" in the hallways to be screamed at. (WATCH WHERE YOU GOIN BITCH!) No more sitting in the library only to be confronted by drug dealers. (Got any money? Cause I got the acid.) No more having to call my parents to leave school early. (I'm sick. Cough. Can I call my dad?) No more being told what to wear. (Your skirt is way too short young lady half of your dairy aire is hangin out and in my day we didn't even have dairy aires blah blah blah I'm unhappy with my life cause I'm a fat bitch.) The question is, will I miss it? It's hard to say; I've had good times, which more than often went hand in hand with bad times.

Good time: Following a boy who my friend liked to his house wearing hats and sunglasses to disguise ourselves as we spied on him.
Bad Time: The boy coming out of his house saying, "Natasha? Is that you?" and me speeding off, which only made the wind knock off my hat which lead to him saying, "Natasha. I KNOW that's you." and me driving away even faster.

Good time: Going to Steeplechase for the first time with my best friend to see what it was like.
Bad Time: Being picked up by a worker there in a golf cart to take us back to our car. Him driving into the woods saying, "Shit man I'm lost as fuck!" then opening a beer and chugging it as he drove us through the woods searching for a clearing to lead us back on ground where we could actually see other human life, while three wasted frat boys were standing on the cart yelling to the deer how pretty me and my friend were. I thought we were going to get raped.

Good Time: Blasting amazing music to jam out to in the car with my friends.
Bad Time: Dancing to the music being blasted, preventing me from seeing the column that hit my car.

And those are just the ones at the top of my head. There have been so many memories, so many beautiful times that I will never forget until the day I YEAH RIGHT. Good god, man, seriously? This isn't one of those lame Valedictorian speeches where you look to the person to your right and they're asleep, because honestly? You asked the smartest kid in school to make a speech? That's asking the most antisocial kid to entertain an audience of hundreds of people for a good fifteen minutes. There's a reason smart kids don't have friends, people. They just drone on and on and on about the work we put forth when while they were putting forth that work, everyone else was drinkin it up and gettin it on. You want an entertaining speech? Go ask the chick who had those parties every Saturday night, now SHE'LL have some funny stories. Go ask the dude who has a wallet full of V-Cards, now HE'LL have some helpful tips you may want to take with you to college. Not the kid who reads, takes tests, and buys fuzzy sweaters. I mean, seriously? If you want a good speech, go ask the girl who blogs. Now SHE'LL give the audience something to laugh about.

Now of course I'll miss these times, of course it' kind of sad that I'll never see Stan and his boil, or get mooned by girls in the bathroom, or step on a mutated cockroach as it falls from my locker. But I'm ready for change. I've gone to the same high school for 4 years, and don't get me wrong, I've absolutely loved it, to finally reach the night where I prance around in a white dress (our gowns were see-through. it's completely scandalous.) and get my picture taken and hug people I don't even care about and talk to teachers I'll never see again, (one of who gave me his card in case I ever want to "talk"), and then party like it's 1999. But it's 2009, baby, and this party is just gettin started.

"Unfit to Live With"

I expected everyone who goes to college to be sane. I mean, come on, crazy people in college? Please. College is for academic, scholarly, cardiganed up ladies and gents, not the whack jobs. According to my high school librarian, this is not true.

"My roommate was so crazy in college."

"Like, in a good way, or a bad way?"

"Like in a she used to wear lampshades on her head way."

"Wait, you mean like around the dorm loungin' in a lampshade?"

"No, I mean like she'd go to class with a lampshade on her head."

"I really just don't know what to say to that."

"She was Iranian."

"Ahhh."

"And 5 foot 7."

"Now that's crazy."

"But she left to live by herself."

"Like in an apartment?"

"No, like they made her live in a one-person dorm."

"They?"

"Them."

"Them?"

"Those."

"Those?"

"You know."

"Not really..."

"You've never heard of the dorms for, "The Unfit To Live With?" people?"

"Unfit to live with?"

"Crazy people."

"They get their own dorms?"

"Yes, the school doesn't trust the crazies to be living with the saneys."

"Because they're unfit to live with?"

"Yes, but they call them Single Dorms to sound nicer."

"Man, that'd be fun!"

"How?"

"Live all by yourself! Don't have to deal with annoying roommates! Or people eating your food! Or people getting mad at you because you ate their food! Or people who snore! Or people who make other loud, annoying noises from their bedroom at night! Like when they bring their boyfriend over! In case you didn't catch what I was implying at first! Man, that'd be stellar!"

"But it's a college experience you need to have freshmen year, living with roommates. It's unforgettable."

"Forget that! I wish I could live with myself!"

Two days later.

"Hello Dr. Sylvester!"

"Hello, Natasha, how are you? How is the medicine working?"

"Not that great...I still wake up every hour and stay up for about 30 minutes before I go to bed."

"Well I had hopes that we'd find some way to help your insomnia before you leave for college, but I just don't know if there's time."

"Oh. Well I can deal with it. I mean, whatever, it's just sleep, right?! HA!"

"No, this is serious, but I know of one thing we can do."

"Yes?"

"Have you ever heard of Single Dorms?"

Pause. Time-out. Take a break. May I interrupt my friendly doctor in order to inform all that I am NOT crazy. Got it? NOT. How DARE he think that just because I can't sleep I am a loony! I mean, how is that going to go over when I meet tons of new people in college and they're like, "Meet my roommates, Candy and Sandy," and I'm like, "Oh, nice to meet you Candy and Sandy, ya fuckin' strippers," and she's like, "And who are your roommates?" and I'm like, "Oh, I don't have any," and she's like, "Don't have any?" and I'm like, "Nope, I live in a Single Dorm," and she's like, "Oh, you mean an Unfit To Live With Dorm?" and I'm like, "Errrrrr..." and she's like, "Oh look at the time..." even though she's really just looking at the mole on her wrist and then she leaves dragging Candy and Sandy behind her sneaking backwards glances at me as they walk away. Whispering. AWKWARD, OKAY? NO. NO. NO. I am NOT being known as the only freshmen who is unfit to live with, which means I'm unfit to befriend, and unfit to talk to. The only thing I'll be fit for is for people to look at me and whisper to each other. NO. NO. NO. I mean if I was a SLUT that'd be pretty fuckin' tight because I could get away with a dude a day, but I'm not; instead I'll have the rep of the nutjob newbie. And then, what? Some creepy bro hears that I have a single room and shows up knockin' on my door and I open it and he's like, "Here, I made this drink for you," and I'm like, "Oh! It's nice and red, like punch, thank you," then I feel dizzy and 4 other guys show up and they're like, "I JUST LOVE THEM ROOFIES, BREH!" and I end up being the Rosemary with a baby around campus. It's dangerous, people! I'm a woman! I'm helpless against horny bros! Am I supposed to put myself in intense danger every single night of my life? NO. NO. NO.

"Yes. I think I've heard of them."

Ya ass munch.

"They are just for people who have special reasons to not be living with anyone else. You're a very luck girl, you know."

Ya lying sack of shit.

"So I'm just going to write a letter and mail it to them requesting for you to be roomed by yourself, alright?"

"AlllllllllRIGHT!"

Ya gonad.

So, here I am, on the edge of being roomed alone, on the edge of missing out on the BIGGEST COLLEGE EXPERIENCE there is, as well as on the edge of having the reputation as That Fucked Up Psycho my first year at a new school. Thanks, Doc.

Have A Great Summer

"Have a great summer."

Look, if this is what you're planning on writing in someone's yearbook, don't write in it. Quickly scribbling, "have a great summer" or, "have a great summer!!!" or "have a GREAT summer" is perhaps the worst thing you could ever write. You might as well be writing:

"I don't give a shit if I ever see you again!"

or,

"I'm trying to get through this quickly so I can sign someone's yearbook I actually want to sign!"

or,

"What I really wanted to write was just my name, but I felt bad, so I'm now telling you to have a great summer, and then writing my name!"

or maybe even,

"Fuck you."

They're all the same. I understand if someone you don't really know, or don't really like, or someone you've never seen before in your entire life, asks you to sign their yearbook and you don't know what to say. But think about this, if someone you don't really know is asking you to sign their yearbook, it's not because you're the most popular person in school, it's because they're the most unpopular person in school and therefore about 99% of the people who will end up signing their yearbook will in fact be writing something as lame as "Have a nice summer," so do you really want to contribute to them showing their senior yearbook to their kids with 26 million, "Have a nice summers" and their kids automatically knowing just how much of a loser they were, or even more awkwardly, their kids asking, "Why did everyone want your summer to be so great?" and then them bursting into tears because high school proved to be the stereotypical worst years of their life? NO. DON'T DO THAT. There are many alternatives you can write in a stranger's yearbook that don't involve the words "summer" in them,but before I get into those, I have just thought of some other things you should avoid when found in this situation.

DO NOT WRITE:

"I may not know you that well, but..."

You might as well just put, "I may not know you that well, but...I'm about to make up something about how nice you seem because "nice" is a common adjective."

DO NOT WRITE:

"We're finally graduating!"

Wait, what?! WE'RE GRADUATING?! Come on. Don't write something that's just incredibly obvious. That's like writing, "You are a girl!" I mean, what? Shut the fuck up that's what.

DO NOT WRITE:

Your name, (and only your name.)

It's just rude.

But, here are some things you COULD write in a loner's yearbook:

"You have always intrigued me, but I never got the chance to know you."

Sure, it's a little creepy, but it would make them feel special and it's not like you're ever going to see them again. (Unless they pull a Felicity on you and follow you to college.)

"You have wonderful -----"

Fill in the blank with a body part. You'll want to put something like "eyes" or "hair," not something like "package" or "rack." Those are not good compliments and will be showed to other people which, yes, will in fact alter your reputation right before graduation, which is something you would not want. (Unless you share the same views as Joan Jett.)

"I never told you, but I have been deeply in love with you since the moment I saw you."

Sure it's a lie, but are they gonna know? Think of how happy you'll make them! And once again, this is the last time you'll ever see them, so it doesn't even matter. (Unless they pull a Robert DeNiro and cling on to the bottom of your car.)

Of course, I'm sure we'd all just prefer if random people didn't come up to us saying, "HEY! CAN I SIGN YOUR YEARBOOK!" or, "HEY! CAN YOU SIGN MY YEARBOOK!" (which means you have to give them yours to sign; it's an unwritten yearbook rule; everyone knows it). Then, when you're all intrigued like, "Oh...I wonder why he randomly asked to sign my yearbook..." and you open it up to see, "Have a great summer!", you're not fuckin pissed for the rest of the day because a whole page was dedicated to 20 different "Have a great summers" in 2 different colored inks. DON'T ask to sign someone's if you're gonna bullshit your "message," because what goes around comes around, my friends, which yes, does include yearbook signings. But yes, I do understand freezing up and writing something awkward, but at least have it be original. I will now end this with something I wrote today, because I didn't know what the fuck to say.

"HEY YOU BAD ASS! YOU OWE ME TWENTY DOLLARS...NOT! Love, Natasha Ferrier"

An Alleged Piss

It may be an awkward place to eavesdrop on conversations, but I have come to the conclusion that it may also be the best place for such an activity.

Bathroom. Bathroom STALLS.

You never know what you may hear as you're sitting on the toilet takin' a whizz. No one can see you, unless they're pulling the same stunt most Kindergartners pulled back when I was kid (approaching random stalls and putting their face up to the crack of the door, so as you are urinating you see an eye peering at you and you say, "HEY! STOP!" or you giggle and say, "HEY! Hehe...STOP!" but they never do, until they hear you flush. Some Kindergartners never snap out of said hobby. They, later on in life, are known as creepers.)

So I'm sitting there, in the stall, minding my own business as well as conducting my own, when two girls walk in.

"So, dude, I like, come home, and like, I go to my bed, and there's piss right on my bed."

"Dude, that's disgusting!"

"Yeah man, I was like, WHAT THE FUCK!"

"Fuck piss, man!"

"Yeah dude, especially on beds and shit!"

"Yeah dude, that's where you like, sleep."

"Yeah, like sometimes I put my face on my pillow, and that's gross, man, if there's like, piss on my pillow."

"That's like, piss on your face, dude!"

"Yeah, dude, that's what I'm sayin'!"

"Keep your cat out of your room, man."

"Nah dude, this was NOT cat piss."

"But you don't have any other pets, man."

"Exactly."

"Dude, what?"

"This was HUMAN piss, man."

"What?"

"HUMAN piss."

"Dude, there's no way there was human piss on your bed."

"Yeah man, I'm sure of it."

"Man, really? I mean, you're like, sure sure?"

"This was no animal piss."

"Dude, gross!"

"Yeah, I know my fuckin' pisses, man. This was definitely the piss of a human."

"Your dad?"

"Nah, man! My dad pisses in the toilet!"

"Your mom?"

"Her, too!"

"Well shit! Who do you think pissed on your bed?"

"I don't know, man! That's what's so scary about it!"

"Dude, you're sayin' like, some random dude took a piss on your bed?"

"Yeah, dude! I don't know how they got in there!"

"Gross!"

"I'm just lyin' in some stranger's piss, man!"

"Some human stranger's piss!"

"Yeah, man, human piss is the worst."

I personally have never examined either type of urine closely enough to be able to compare and contrast the two, but from what I hear, this girl knows her pisses, and from what she was implying, a random stranger, who was human nonetheless, broke into her house, took a piss not only in her toilet, which would be weird enough, but on her bed, then left after this alleged piss, and didn't even realize that the bed he had randomly decided to break into a house to piss on was the bed of a girl who knows her fuckin' pisses.

And now, for eavesdropping purposes, I know which fuckin' stalls to pop a squat in.

A Brief Encounter With A Flasher

The one day I miss school is the one day I miss my opportunity to be flashed.

"WE JUST GOT FLASHED."

That was the text I received as I was lying in bed, thankful for getting to stay home that day. I wasn't thankful anymore.

"What?! What happened? DETAILS."

I sit up in bed.

"Never mind, I'm coming to school right now."

That's right. I got out of bed and drove the 40 minutes it takes me to get to school to hear about this incident face-to-face.

"WHAT HAPPENED."

"I thought you were at home toda---"

"Forget about it. Tell me what happened."

"We got flashed."

"I CAN'T BELIEVE I MISSED THIS! Keep going."

"So we're walking beside this fence, and we look over and there's this guy. In like his 30's. Wearing glasses. And it looks like he's taking a piss, but then he turns around. So we see his...you know...and then he starts walking along with us, but on the other side of the fence, and he's just you know, got it whipped out! And he's playing with it and fondling his...you know...those other things...and he's looking at us the entire time. Just staring. And fondling. No expression on his face whatsoever."

"THE ONE DAY I MISS, DUDE!"

"I KNOW!"

It took me days to get over this. Of all the days to miss school, of all the times we've taken that exact same route to get a cup of joe at lunch time, the one day I'm not there is the day there is a brief encounter with A Flasher. It's not that I need to see a "thing." I've had enough of those. Okay not what I meant. I just mean I've had my share. Good god that is just not even what I'm trying to say. I have not seen a lot, and I'm making it seem like I have. And now I'm about to get into the number of the ones I've seen and this is where I stop because this is weird and awkward and sometimes my father reads my blog. MOVIES, PEOPLE. R-RATED MOVIES. The point is, if there was a time to be flashed the time would be now, right before I graduated from high school. I can't go around being flashed in college, I'll be too mature to think it's funny and I'll end up doing something like "reporting" it so it doesn't "happen again." A.k.a. LAME. I mean I really thought I had missed my chance to ever be emotionally scarred by a man sexually violating me by grabbing his private parts in front of me causing me to feel mentally damaged. God dammit. That is, until last Thursday.

"Yeah I had this dream that ants were jumping onto me like giant monkeys or something and---"

"THAT'S THE GUY!"

"What?"

"THE FLASHER THE FLASHER THE FLASHER!"

"OH MY GOD."

"HE'S LOOKING AT US!"

"OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD."

"FUCK FUCK FUCK!"

There he was. Pale. Buzz cut. Black hair. Black thick-framed glasses, like Clark Kent's. Or some urban hipster's. Or a pedophile's. He was walking down the street on the other side of this fence, as we walked up the street towards our school.

"Is he gone?"

"Well there's a tree in the way, but I mean he was walking the other way so---"

"OKAY HE'S NOW WALKING THIS WAY."

"WHAT?!"

HE'S WALKING WITH US."

"FUCK!"

"HE'S UNZIPPING HIS PANTS! FUCK IT'S COMING THE DOWN! THE ZIPPER IS COMING DOWN HE'S PLAYING WITH HIS PANTS WHAT THE FUCK HE'S GONNA FLASH US!"

"RUUUUNNNNNN!"

And there we were, sprinting. All of a sudden, just like that. Sprinting. And screaming.

"AAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Sprinting from a flasher. Maybe even saving our own lives. Or at least our innocence. Or at least the mental images that could perhaps stick with us for days and days. I mean, I have a mental image now and I didn't even see the wang.

"AAAAHHHHHHH!"

We run into school, not looking back once. We get in, out of breath, freaked the fuck out, and scared to death. So of course we run upstairs and start telling the story to anyone who walks by us.

"THERE WAS A FLASHER AND HE WAS PLAYING WITH HIS ZIPPER GONNA FLASH US MAN WE RAN AND RAN AND HIS ZIPPER WAS COMING DOWN FOR SURE!"

We were really not making any sense at all. I mean look, we had a lot of adrenaline pumping through us. And yes, we were screaming at the top of our lungs. And cracking up. I mean come on, who's not gonna laugh at some Clark Kent wannabe who waits for girls to walk by so he can stare and hold? How is that not funny? If I waited around outside of school and then pulled up my shirt and held myself when a boy walked by, staring at him with no expression, I'm sure people would think it was hilarious. Not that I'd ever do that. This year.

"ZIPPER ON HIS PANTS COMING DOWN HIS HANDS WERE ON IT FLASHER!"

"RAN AND RAN AND HE WAS THERE BUT THEN HE WAS THERE WALKING OUR WAY WHEN HE WASN'T BEFORE CAUSE HE WAS GONNA FLASH US HIS THINGY!"

You say words like "thingy" when you're freaked out.

"Hey I heard you guys saw someone's thingy?"

You regret it later.

So yeah, there's a flasher lingering around my school campus. He's ready to whip it out. I'm ready for whatever happens next. Does that count as me being flashed at least once in my lifetime? Sure, my brief encounter with a flasher didn't actually involve flashing, but it involved a guy playing with his zipper staring at us and me running and screaming, which I think is the exact same thing that happens when someone is flashed, anyway. My point is, that fuckin counts.

Not Bop It, POP It

Stan walks into P.E. class with a walk that would perfectly display the antonym for "swagger." He has one hand on his hip like his back is about to give out, he's biting his lip, not in the seductive "look at me bite my lip, you sex pot cause I want you" way, but in the "I am in so much pain that I have to bite my lip only to cause myself even more pain" way. He's taking little tiny steps, steps a Smurf would take, or a Munchkin from Munchkin land, or of someone who is holding their back and biting their lip.

"Wanna sit down, Stan? You look like you could use some rest."

"I can't."
Stan leans against the bleachers, and for some reason is thrusting his pelvis out so his bottom half doesn't touch anything.

"Oh. Well, are you alright?"

"Other than my severe battle wound, I'm alright!"
This, obviously, is a cue for us to ask him about his 'severe battle wound.'

"How did you get a severe battle wound, Stan?"

"Wrestling. Ouch!"
This unnecessary cry of pain is a cue for us to ask what exactly his battle wound is, which, of course, none of us really want to do. You never know with Stan.

"Do you have a bad bruise or something, Stan?"

"No."
This short response is a cue for us to play a guessing game about Stan's battle wound. Since we are in a class where we get A's for wearing green shorts and do absolutely nothing for a whole solid hour, we comply.

"Is it a cut?"

"No."

"A gash?"

"No."

"A puncture wound?"

"No."

"A scrape?"

"No."
You'd think there would be a bigger list of wounds, but as far as "battle wounds" go, we run out of ideas pretty quickly.

"What is it, Stan."

"A boil."

"A boil?"

"A giant boil."

"A giant boil?"

"On the crevice."

"The crevice..."

"Of my ass."

Summary: Stan has a giant boil on the crevice of his ass that makes him walk slowly with his hand on his back biting his lip and he got it from wrestling and calls it a battle wound.

Analysis: Stan has a boil on his ass and he wants to talk about it.

"Wow Stan...th...I...wh..."
It's hard to form complete sentences when you're trying not to laugh. Or puke. Or imagine it in your head.

"Yeah, and you wanna know the worst thing about it?"
Is it that you just told all of us and we're going to be making fun of this for weeks?

"It lets out blood."

"Blood."

"And pus."

"STAN THAT'S ENOUGH."

"Yeah it's pretty bad. The nurse said it should go down on its own, but last night my dad decided to take matters into his own hands."

"How did he do that...?"

"Well he was looking at it."

"Looking at it."

"Yeah, he was really surprised at how big it is."

"How big is it, Stan?"

"It's a little smaller than my fist."
GOOD GOD!

"Wow."

"So my dad was lookin' at it, and he decides that it needs to be popped pronto."

Summary: Eighteen-year-old-Stan pulled down his pants and showed his father a boil as big as a small child's fist that is on the crevice of his ass and his father says it should be popped.

Analysis: Stan mooned his father and his father was okay with that.

"So he just kind of grabbed it."

"Wait, what?"

"My dad."

"Your dad."

"He just kinda clenched it in his fist."

"Wait, WHAT."

"My boil. He was gonna pop it."
WHAT THE FUCK, STAN.

"Okay, Stan, you're gonna have to start from the top here."

"My dad was gonna pop it, so he grabbed it in his fist and just clenched it in his famous bear claw grip and held it there, just squeezing it for a bit to see what'd it do."

"Wh..."
WHAT THE FUCK, STAN'S DAD.

"But it didn't pop."

"Not even in his famous bear claw grip?"

"No, not even with that!"

"Man!"

"So he started twisting it."

"Twisting it."

"Yeah, to pop it."

"What is this, Bop It?"

"No, pop it."

"Yeah, I got it, Stan."

"Like this."
Stan demonstrates his father's hand on Stan's boil. Clench. Twist right. Twist left. Rapid twisting. It was hilarious until I started getting mental images.

"MENTAL IMAGES, STAN!"

"Oh. Sorry."

Summary: Stan's dad examined the giant boil on Stan's giant ass and bear-clawed the shit out of it, then twisted it, and it didn't pop and now blood and pus comes out of it.

Analysis: Stan's dad cradled Stan's boil. Stan's family might just be inbred.